Seven Days 'Til Grown" - by Sulihat Suleiman

Zally never liked birthdays. They always felt like deadlines. A reminder of what she hadn’t done yet. What she was supposed to have figured out by now. And this one—this 18th—loomed like a final exam she hadn’t studied for. It started on **May 20**, exactly one week out. She sat on her bed, staring at the calendar on the wall. May 27 circled in thick black ink, like a warning sign. She didn’t feel like someone about to be an adult. She felt like a kid in borrowed shoes, too big, too stiff. Her house was quiet, always quiet. Mom worked double shifts at the clinic, and Zally knew not to ask too many questions. Dad lived two cities away and called once in a while—mostly when he remembered. School didn’t help. People smiled at her, waved, asked about college or her birthday plans. She nodded, made up answers. Inside, she felt like a ghost floating just above it all. On **May 21**, she found a photo in a shoebox buried deep in her closet. She and her mom on the front porch, both holding popsicles, both grinning like the world had no sharp edges. Zally stared at the girl she was back then—five years old and fearless. What had changed? By **May 22**, Zally had written a list in her notebook: “18 Things I’ve Survived.” It was the first time she allowed herself to see her own strength. Things like "my first panic attack," "the divorce," and "being left on read by the one I loved." Each memory was a scar—and a sign she was still standing. Jamie, her best friend since eighth grade, begged to throw her a party. Zally declined. “I just want quiet,” she said. Jamie rolled her eyes but didn’t push. She never did. On **May 24**, Zally spent lunch alone behind the school, under the old oak tree that knew more about her than most people did. She scribbled down a poem she wouldn’t show anyone. It wasn’t finished, but maybe that was the point. **May 25** brought tears. No reason she could explain. Maybe it was the weight of becoming something she didn’t recognize. Or maybe it was letting go of who she used to be. She cried in the shower and then felt better. Lighter. On **May 26**, she stood in front of the mirror and whispered to her reflection: “You made it.” She didn’t mean she had it all figured out. She just meant she was still here. Breathing. Becoming. Then came **May 27**. The sun rose like any other day, but something inside Zally shifted. Jamie dragged her to a lake just outside town. There was a blanket, an uneven cake, and a cheap Bluetooth speaker playing their old favorite songs. They danced. They laughed. Zally let herself enjoy it. That night, Mom hugged her for longer than usual. Dad called, and for once, he sounded like he meant it. And when Zally lay in bed, now officially eighteen, she didn’t feel grown. But she felt something else. Like the first page of a new book, still blank, but waiting for her to write it. And maybe—just maybe—she was ready

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